Sleight of Hand
by RRfan4life
Summary: Both were victims of circumstance, but could they become each other's saving grace? [RossRachel, AU] HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

Slight of Hand  
By: Caity

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own them... if I did, I would be considerably more rich than I am, and I would _not_ have to work for measley pay at the pizza place.

**A/N:** Alright, I've gotten around to finishing the first chapter of newness! Hehe as you know if you read my A/Ns in "Something Like Love", I've been anticipating writing this fic for a few months now. I drew ideas from the films "The Good Girl", "Derailed", and "Friends With Money" (dude, I know they're all Jennifer Aniston movies... so sue me), as well as other fics and what not. This fic will eventually have rated R chapters, but I will specify when. I want this fic to be a bit intense, so we'll see what happens.

Oh, and as a note... updates will probably not be as close together as most would prefer, LOL. Im not saying like months apart or anything near that, but like, expect one probably once a week, maybe a week and a half. This is proving to be a bit hard to write and I'm really determined to only post stuff I deem worthy... and I'm my toughest critic. lol

Alright, to set this one up... well, it actually sets itself up, mostly. Pretty self-explanatory. Rachel married Barry and its six years later. Ross had married Carol but divorced her when she realized she was a lesbian, and he married Emily four years after. They've been together for two years at this point. And the rest should pretty much set itself up, ask questions if you've got 'em. :-) And dude, you guys super impressed me with how many reviews you gave my last fic. See if you can do it again ;-)

* * *

Who the hell decided that birthdays were supposed to be happy?

"Blow the candles out!", squealed a pretty, excited woman, around her late twenties. Her curled hair bounced up and down as she acted much younger than her age called for. The birthday girl hide a look of disgust at her friend, instead letting a sardonic smile to partially mask her thoughts. She couldn't even remember the last time she smiled from true, honest enjoyment, rather than a desperate attempt to quiet herself.

"Take a breath, Kiki, I'm going."

With the feeble reassurance, she leaned over the large, elaborately-decorated cake, closed her eyes, and blew.

"They're all out!", another woman shouted happily. The guests all politely clapped, handing in their own smiles while shadily covering up a few whispers to their spouses and friends. She pretended not to notice.

"Happy birthday, babe," she heard her husband offer her from behind, and she wished, just for once, that he'd actually make an effort to sound sentimental. But, as she was taught, she turned around with a smile and thanked him. After a quick, impersonal peck on the lips, and some complementary "aww"s from the party guests, the maid began slicing the cake. Everyone became engaged in conversation, barely noticing that the star of the night was simply staring at the cake.

She was thirty years old.

Three fucking decades, she'd been living now. A lot of people (most of them still in their twenties or already well into their fourties) would dispell this age as still being quite young. But try living thirty years and _still_ not having an inkling about why the hell someone decided to drop you down on this planet. She felt old as dirt, as she counted all of the thirty candles her friends had insisted on planting on the top of her cake. Most of the dessert was already comsumed or in the process of being consumed. Of the "Happy Birthday" greeting that had been drawn in red gel icing on the top, only one word remained intact.

"Happy".

She sighed a bit. Had the cake somehow heard her silent wish, peeping out from somewhere deep in her mind, barely whispered as a thought?

And what was "happy", even?

-----

He stood, completely silent.

She looked at him, her eyes sympathetic but the rest of her demeanor hinting that she wanted some sort of reply. What she wanted to hear, he didn't know. What was someone supposed to say in this situation? Surely, he'd know by now.

Especially when he knew it was all too true.

"Emily," he began, his voice already shaking at the words. He didn't say anything else, merely trailing off with a silent plea. He couldn't go through the pain of this twice; why was she putting him through this? No one's perfect, that's what counselling was for. If she couldn't even agree to that, he sure as hell couldn't wrap his mind around how she could possibly think what she was asking of him was justifiable.

"You know I'm right," she stated, her voice only slightly showing any sign of sadness. They both knew their relationship had been building up- or rather, crumbling down- to this point for a while now. He was just more reluctant to admit it.

"Probably, but a seperation? Can't we just . . . work on things?", he lamely asked, already knowing the answer. He was barely surprised or offended when her reply came in the form of an eye roll and an exasperated sigh.

"No, you knew this was where we were headed. We rushed into it too fast."

"You weren't complaining then," he mumbled.

After a tense moment of silence, it became apparent that she'd had enough of this conversation, and she exited with barely a word. He sat back, too disappointed with the shell of a life he'd led himself to become to even react right away. He was numb.

Two failed marriages before he was even thirty-two. Who woulda thought? The one man in Manhattan who wanted, more than anybody, to just finally settle down with the person he was meant to spend the rest of his life with was the one who chose the wrong turn at every fork in the road. Every chance he got turned to shit; every relationship he touched decayed to nothing. He was beginning to feel a finality set in.

Maybe he simply wasn't meant to be with someone. Maybe, this entire time, his entire life since before he could remember . . . he'd been setting himself up for inevitable failure. Someone, much more powerful than himself, must have decided to keep this man hanging, eternally waiting for the one thing he would never find.

Maybe it was the beginning of the end, and all that was left was to accept it.

Defeat, once and for all.

-----

She knew something was off right away.

She didn't hear the usual skip in his step that accompanied him as he strode into their home from work. Anything that had to do with making money or set up the possibility of certificates and awards to be presented usually make him euphoric. In the early stages of their marriage, just the sight of their luxurious penthouse situated exclusively on Park Avenue would cause him to break out in a grin, exposing every one of those pearly whites.

But today, rather than the customary "I'm back" that he would weakly offer her, she heard silence. His footsteps echoed on the marble in the foyer, and she could tell that he'd dismissed their maid with a wave of his hand. No matter how many times she tried to ask him to treat her like a human being, he still just considered her "the help".

It would be easier to brush it off. She was in the large jacuzzi in the master bathroom, soaking in the warm water and waiting to drift into some dreamless sleep. The candles were lit, the aroma gentle, the air soothing. But she all of a sudden felt anxious as she tracked the sound of his footsteps from the marble floor, onto the carpeted floor of the front room, to the rug in the hallway, up the few steps to the raised level, and finally onto the hardwood of their bedroom.

After a few silent seconds that she presumed was him taking off his tie, he barged into the bathroom. She fought the urge to yell at him, to cover herself up despite the abundant bubbles, but she didn't. He was looking at her, seeming a bit desperate, but not for her. For something bigger.

"What?", she asked, her tone hinting at annoyance, one eyebrow raised.

"Its gone," he stated simply. "Its all gone."

"What's gone?", she asked carefully, pulling herself up to a sitting position but making sure her body was still out of his view. Eight years of marriage meant nothing to her- she'd lost that comfort with him long ago. That left with the honeymoon stage. But she was beginning to get worried, now.

"Everything," he answered vaguely, sitting on the toilet with the lid down. "Remember that lawsuit we were going through at the practice?"

Ah, work. She nodded, despite the fact that she mentally zoned out anytime conversation turned to talk of his orthadontist clinic. Which meant that she didn't pay attention about ninety percent of the time.

"We lost. Any money we have at the clinic, we now_ owe_. And we have to sell it."

"_What?_"

He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw fear in his eyes. Perhaps, deep down, even a tear forming.

"We're broke."

-----

He took a look around himself, and saw nothing.

Blank walls, blank floors. Blank mind . . .

How the hell do you start all over when you're thirty-one years old? He couldn't even remember how he'd started fresh when he was twenty-six, at the beginning of the first end. He'd never imagined he'd be doing this again.

Well, he never imagined a lot of things that happened.

He'd insisted she keep the apartment, and, consequently, most of their things. He took only what was his, maybe out of a dimly lit hope that she would come to her senses. A seperation wasn't _final_. There was room to move around, right? They'd see what they have apart, and she would see that it was better together. Even if it wasn't.

It was so bizarre, finding himself back in Greenwich Village after he thought he'd said goodbye forever. It may have only been two years ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. It sure felt like it. And, truth be told, his memory painted a brighter picture of the place. His memory decieved him a lot, these days. Not that it could be blamed for it all.

When he was in his mid-twenties and in the same position, he could see the silver lining. He still had a lifetime ahead of him to make new decisions, re-route the course of his life, and once again be happy. But now he felt that his time was fleeting, if not already run out. Thirty-one may not be old, but hell . . . he wasn't the same guy. That optimism left him ages ago, leaving behind the tough skin of a man twice broken. There was no bright side anymore.

Chances are, he'd lost any chance for a bright side the first time he said "I do".

-----

The moving people had left, leaving the air feeling dead and stale.

She stared in contempt at her new surroundings. No longer were the walls immaculately white stucco and polished stone; they were a beige-ish plaster. The floors were a grainy, plain carpet in some places, an unpolished rustic wood in others. No stairs led upstairs, no long hallways showed off how many doors were present to God knows which rooms. Just a front room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom . . .

This place would surely be her new hell.

They truly had lost it all. Their penthouse was sold, most of the more luxe items from inside packaged up and carried away. The essentials remained with them, and a few luxuries they'd gotten away with. Their pride, however, didn't make the cut. They were now honorary citizens of the Village, which was surely slumming it.

She perched her white Chanel sunglasses atop her head, clicked the heels of her red Prada pumps together, adjusted the Louis Vutton bag on her shoulder . . . and felt more out of place than Paris Hilton dropped in middle America. She'd barely spoken to him since the move, and she didn't expect him to reach out to her. That's not what they did, not ever. Emotional support was never part of the deal.

The boxes needed unpacking, the furnature needed adjusting. But she just sat on the gold, cushy couch, staring idly at the screen of the 52 inch television- the largest one they'd been able to salvage. Some random entertainment program flickered actively, a perfect contrast to the two still souls that occupied the front room.

"I'm gonna go get a beer," he grunted, to which she made merely a noise of recognition in reply.

He left, and she sighed to herself. Thirty years and a month old, and her prime was a thing of the past.

And the definition of "happy" was still a far-away dream.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleight of Hand

**A/N: **Answering stuff I forgot to address before . . . yes, this fic is AU to the point where Rachel didn't know the Gellers in high school. I know, that does change the dynamic a bit, but I kinda like not having to draw within the lines of the show's plot. Having to address that they knew each other and have them play catch-up, well, its a little annoying lol. "Are you Rachel Green?" only stays interesting for so long. I haven't gone outside those boundaries since "Your Ad Here", so I decided to here. I want to be able to have them get to know each other, because its more material to write.

Oh, and the inevitable comparison to Tina Chaves's "Beautiful Release" was brought up. To be honest, for as many times as I've reread that fic, it wasn't in my mind when I came up with this idea. I do realize the possibily similarities though, and I'm gonna work hard to differentiate this story from it. I mean, I adore "Beautiful Release", it's probably my favorite fiction ever next to "Dirty Laundry" by knilb17, but I dont want this to come off as a carbon copy. Hopefully, its different enough that you wont have to think about it while reading this. And Tina, if youre out there, silently reading... I hope you dont think Im copying, lol. Cause I swear on my Friends DVDs, I'm not :-P But I just knew that this would be brought up lol.

* * *

_6 Months Later..._

Ross Geller slammed the door shut behind him as he arrived home after work. He was sick and tired of his collegues continuing to treat him like he was a child every time he tried to develop a theory.

For months, now, he'd been doing intensive sidework outside his duties as a professor at New York University. He'd kept his work secretive, only working on it after hours in his office, when all the other professors went home to their wives and families. He had nothing to invest in like that . . . which explained a lot about why his marriage failed. The incentive to go home just . . . withered away.

After he finally accomplished creating a new theory about the evolution of a specific species of bird, he'd finally become confident enough to share his views with his fellow co-workers. All he had gotten was a laugh, a comrade-ish slap on the back, and the shallow advice that he should, "stick to the supplied material for the class", and quit filling his students' minds with his own garbage that might very well be the exact opposite of the truth.

Since when did science have limits? Since when were you forced to follow a strict code, throwing everything that formed your own mind into the blue? There was no fucking way that any of the paleontological theories he was being told to taught were developed that way. You had to think outside the box . . . which, apparently, he "wasn't supposed to do." They still considered him some little tour guide from the natural history museum, rather than the phD that carried after his title.

He was sick of having to play by the rules. His whole life seemed to be one big "paint by numbers" activity. He was _supposed_ to find the love of his life in college. He was _expected_ to propose. And when that collapsed, he was anticipated to move on and find someone else more suited for him.

Maybe that was the reason that he'd failed at nearly every attempt.

Maybe that was why it had all burned out so quick.

Eh, he wasn't the one to psychologically analyze himself. He didn't give a shit about it anymore. All his mind had been focusing on was the problems in his marriages. Carol was inevitable, but Emily . . . well, it had all gone to hell now. If she wanted to fix things, she'd have to take the initiative. And it had been six months, so he wasn't expecting any "reaching out" anytime soon. Fuck hope- there was no point.

As he went to the bathroom to wash his face, he stared at his reflection. He almost didn't recognize himself. He was no longer the innocent, shy boy he once was, back in his midtwenties. He heart had too many bandages and scars for any of that anymore. While he would normally be expected to be more vulnerable, more susceptable to pain, he was rather becoming more blasé over it. Why put up defenses if it was ultimately gonna turn out wrong anyway? He accepted it now. It was, after all, where his life always led.

Down some dead-ended road.

-----

Lifelessly, Rachel Green-Farber trudged up the staircase to her apartment on the fifth floor. A few fellow neighbors passed her, offering nods of recognition and tentative smiles. She'd attempt a smile back, but she knew they were intimidated by her. Her and her bright Jimmy Choos and the shamble of the life she once knew. And the sob story she never expected to be able to tell.

But anyway, no sense in wallowing in it.

She threw her keys on the kitchen counter, sighing as she looked around. Conditions hadn't changed much, and she still found a cloud of depression hanging over her head when her gaze passed through the apartment. She'd been forced to adapt to so much in the last six months, and she wasn't quite used to any of it. Living in the Village, working as a waitress, being . . . well, alone.

She hadn't seen him in half a year. And, frankly, she almost considered that a plus. She didn't know where he was, she didn't know why he left, but her mind rarely dwelled on these questions anymore. He'd left for a beer, walked out of her life, and . . . she was stuck here. Left to fend for herself. Sure, her parents helped with the bills, but it still was so strange. It was almost like college, just twenty-two years late. At least . . . well, at least he was out of the picture. One worry was gone.

His friends, in the beginning, had said he was "clearing his head", whatever the hell that meant. She stopped caring. Barry could take care of himself, she'd take care of herself, and everything would just . . . continue that way.

She was tired as shit. Almost immediately after scoring her waitressing job at a local burger joint, Rachel had found that she wasn't very good at her job. Why the hell they kept her, she didn't know. Maybe her appearance made them look good. Either way, she suffered complaints nearly every day, and had a particularly angry one this evening. She was wiped.

Stepping into her bedroom to undress, she caught her reflection in the mirror on her dresser. Bags under the eyes, golden highlights growing out. Was that a wrinkle at the side of her mouth? She quickly averted her attention, focusing on pulling her pajamas on. Who cares if she was only thirty and a half years old? She felt like she could be fourty, with the amount she'd been through. If only she'd known then.

Too tired for a shower, she climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. Her mind wandered, thinking of just what her place in life currently was. She was legally still married, with a husband she hadn't seen in six months, living a shitty life in her small Village apartment, earning seven bucks an hour waitressing at a place where she rarely got tipped.

This couldn't be it for her.

But . . . and even the thought made her cringe. But what if this _was_ it?

---

He saw her enter out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly, he got his mailbox key out and opened it as quick as he could. As he got his mail out and pretending to keep his attention on retrieving the mail, he glanced peripherally at her. She moved to her own mailbox on the other side of the room, getting her own stuff out. Not even giving him a second look.

She kept her back turned to him, probably reading the front of the envelopes in her box. He took the opportunity to look at her fully. Her golden hair, while thrown messily up into a wavy ponytail, still caught the light in the room. He got the impression that she must have once been someone who highly regarded her appearence, but most have lost reason to. He wondered why, and he also wondered how much better she could possibly look on a day that she _tried_.

Every so often, since a few weeks after he moved into the building, he'd run into this elusive stranger in the mail room downstairs. They'd never speak, let alone regard each other's presence. Several times their eyes had met, if only briefly. Hers were electric blue, the kind that would leave him staring after her when she exited. They'd always led him to want to know more about her, whoever she was.

All of a sudden, she closed her mailbox, and turned to leave. He quickly tried to look engrossed in an advertisement he'd recieved, causing her to shoot him a quizzical look. He felt her gaze on him, even as she moved across the room. He could do nothing else but look up.

And, for a brief moment, their gazes locked.

Wordlessly, she turned from him and left. Just like every other time. And, following in suit, he still stared after her. He'd seen it, the thing that always kept him thinking. There was such a sadness behind those eyes, like she'd gone through much more than she'd let on. Even in the few seconds he'd spent staring into them, he always felt a small part of himself connect with her. Maybe she was just like him; someone who'd fallen victim to inevitable failure. Caught up in a game of neverending disappointment.

Nonetheless, he knew these chance encounters were growing into something he looked forward to. It put a small butterfly in the pit of his stomach everytime he checked his mail, even if she didn't turn up. The chance was always there.

For once, something was catching his attention that _didn't_ make him loathe his life.

-----

Even as she walked the staircase back up to her floor, her mind was on him.

Every once in a while, she'd enter the mailroom to find the same neighbor checking his mail. He had dark hair, sometimes spiked a bit in the front, sometimes messy and sticking out at awkward angles. His clothing would either be formal, as if he lectured at big business meetings, and sometimes it was overly casual. He was an endearing person, and she always found herself secretly watching him as he watched her.

But then, the few times she'd gotten a look at his eyes . . . _wow_. Everytime she saw them, she was taken aback at the intensity. There was so much she'd never be able to guess behind those deep chestnut irises, she could tell. He seemed almost tortured, vulnerable . . . and yet, in some strange way, in control. It was an odd paradox, and it enchanted her.

She reached her level, nearly continuing to the next flight of stairs as she was lost in thought. As she stopped in front of her door to retrieve her key out of her purse, she realized her heart was beating a bit fast.

God, it had been so long since something had done that to her.

She didn't know his name, or even which apartment he lived in. All she knew was that, somehow, he was the first thing in six months that she wasn't indifferent about. And he was the first thing in _years_ that interested her at this level. She wanted to know about who he was, what his own sob story could be. She was almost sure that he had to have one as well. Seeing him sometimes made her feel like, with his sullen demeanor, she was almost looking into a mirror.

She made a mental note to check her mail at the same time tomorrow. Maybe she could get a closer look.

Maybe this odd man could keep her company in misery. After all, didn't everyone say that was better?


	3. Chapter 3

Sleight of Hand

This fic is frustrating the hell out of me, lol. Usually, I like to have my chapters around 2000 words. And for some reason, I seem incapable of doing that for this story. They all keep coming up short! This one in particular, it isnt even 1500 words. And yet, its all I wanted to happen lol. Theres not much else I can develop, or want to, you know?

So please forgive how short it is, and I hope you still enjoy it. Im going on vacation a week from today, so my fingers are crossed for another chapter before then... cause I'll be gone from June 9th until the 19th. Going to Disney World, woo! Gotta love Disney. So yeah, hopefully there will be more before I go :-)

Loving the reviews btw, even if it was odd that all the reviews for chapter 2 were like an entirely different group of people than from chapter 1, haha.

* * *

She trudged down the street, her shoes splashing in the puddles that had accumulated from the earlier rain shower. It was eight o'clock at night, the sun just barely visable above the horizon, teasing the sky as it almost slipped completely into night. The streetlights were on, and she used them to guide her way down the five blocks from the restaurant she worked at to her apartment.

She stopped a few feet away from her building, just as she'd done every day this week. She knew her normal routine, which would be to go straight to get her mail in the mailroom. Yet somehow, that had become a much larger feat. She thought of him.

It had been a little over a week since their last encounter. And now, everytime she was on her way to checking her mail, she became nervous. What if he was there? Should she talk to him, finally, and end this charade of being distant passerby?

And then, as always, she told herself she was being ridiculous. She didn't even know who he was.

But still . . . she was starting to like that feeling of not knowing whether or not she was going to run into him. The rush, the butterflies in her stomach, the quickening pace of her heart beating . . . The thought egged her on, and she finally continued on her way into the building.

When she reached the mailroom, the sinking feeling kicked in, as if her heart had plummeted deep into her stomach, crushing the butterflies.

She was alone, again.

Not even interested, she got her mail and leaned against the counter beneath her box, flipping through a random magazine. No sense in leaving so quick, was there? Though with every passing minute, all the courage she'd gathered up on the street diminished a little bit more. But just as she turned around to gather all her stuff and give up again, she heard the door open behind her.

He stopped at the sight of her, a bit alarmed at how quickly she'd turned to face him. He could sense the tension, so to ease it, he smiled.  
"Hey . . .", he offered. The simple word left his lips, and lingered in the air between them. He wondered where it had even come from, and how his mind had even coherently formed it. He knew his thoughts were far from that.

"Hi," she returned after she'd absorbed his greeting. She tentatively grinned back.

She watched him cross the room to his own box, not even bothering to pretend to do something. She just stood and stared after him. He pretended he couldn't feel the burn of her gaze on his back long enough for him to get his mail. As soon as he locked everything back up, he faced her.

"What floor do you live on?", he asked curiously, mentally kicking himself in the head for choosing such a lame question. That was _last_ on the list of things he wanted to know about her. Well, he had to start somewhere, and at least this would open up a small conversation.

"Um, the fifth," she answered, pointing upwards. "Apartment 5C. You?"

"3B," he replied. After a few more awkward seconds full of silent curiosity, he offered her his hand. "I'm Ross, Ross Gellar."

"Rachel Green," she answered, taking his hand and shaking it.

"Rachel, huh?", he asked when the shake ended, stepping back a step to lean against the opposite counter. "That's pretty."

She silently chuckled, feeling her cheeks burn a bit. She knew she shouldn't be feeling like this; she was thirty years old, for God's sake! But for some reason, she felt like this exchange was shaving _years_ off that. She felt . . . young. Anxious. Excited, even.

"So what do you do?", he enquired, desperately seeking for some way to continue conversation. Some way to keep her eyes on his.

"Im a waitress . . . at a restaurant," she lamely responded.

"Anywhere I would know?"

"That Italian place down the street," she motioned with her head. He nodded. "What about you?"

"I'm a paleontologist, I work at the museum downtown."

"Oh wow."

"Yeah . . ."

They fell into silence again, so much buzzing in the air. It captivated Ross. He eyed her as the shorter layer of her golden, wavy hair fell from her messy ponytail, and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear. It took all the will in his body not to do it himself. He realized that if there was nothing more said, she would probably return to her place. He had to see her again, and not another random meeting in the mailroom.

"Hey Rachel," he called out to get her attention again. She looked back up at him. "Would you like to get some drinks together, sometime? I mean, we _are_ neighbors. It couldn't hurt to get to know each other." Without his usual hesitance and shyness, he found it a strikingly easy question to ask. Or maybe it was just her; he was comfortable in her presense.

"Yeah," she answered, a small smile lifting one corner of her mouth. "I'd like that." She wrote her number down for him, handing him the piece of paper and giving him one last smile. "I'm free this weekend."

"I'll give you a call."

She nodded, waved him a quick goodbye, and headed out of the room. As he stared after her, something glinting on her hand caught his eye, but he couldn't make out what it was. And before he could, she was gone.

-----

When she got home, she wasn't even hit with the usual smack of reality her apartment offered her. She didn't care that her dirty dishes from earlier resided in the sink, or that a pile of laundry to tackle awaited her. Finally, something out of the ordinary was happening. Something to break the tediousness routine that was the last half year. Something to get her mind off . . . everything.

She was _smiling_ to herself. Humming, even.

She still barely know Ross Geller, and this lunch wasn't even a solid date, but yet . . . it made her feel so much lighter. Barry was officially a thing of yesterday, whether anything with Ross happened or not. She was determined to forget her past and make a new future. No matter what, she saw a potential friend in him, and friend weren't something she came by often anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, fate really _did_ have something bigger in store for her.

-----

He stared at the phone.

A little bit of his vulnerability began leaking back into his blood. Funny, how he had somehow felt . . ._confident_ in her presense. But now that he was left to make the first big leap, it didn't seem so easy.

Was it even considered a date? He didn't think so. As he had said, it was as "neighbors". That didn't take away his usual sweaty palms and increasing pulse, though. After feeling nothing for so long, it was almost an alien experience. Out-of-body even. And then, he thought of Emily.

Was she dating now? He tried to imagine her out with another man, kissing someone that wasn't him. And, funnily enough, it didn't stir any feelings with him. It didn't make him feel anger, jealous, rejected . . . she'd pretty much already rejected him. She hadn't even had the decency to begin discussing an official divorce. He was indifferent over anything she could be doing now.

And yet, he already felt an overwhelming protectiveness over Rachel. And he didn't even know anything about her besides her job. How could a woman who had him so beguiled with only her eyes only be a waitress? He felt like she had the potential to be so much more- anything, really. He felt like he could help her realize everything she was, and everything she could be.

As he strode into his bathroom to wash his face for the night, he stopped to examine his face in the mirror once again. It was the same man he saw every night, except something was different. There was a hint of his old self in his eyes.

He smiled; tomorrow, he'd work up the courage to call her. It was just a few drinks, and she probably wasn't expecting much from him. Maybe just friendship, someone to confide in. A familiar face in a crowd of strangers. He knew that was, most of all, what he was seeking in her. He knew he could provide that.

Hopefully, she could provide that for him. Maybe she could be what he'd been waiting for all this time.

Before he could get ahead of himself, he went to bed, her face in his thoughts as he drifted into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Something Like Love

**A/N: **First, let me say that I am _so sorry_ that this took so long. I hadn't written anything for this chapter the week before I left (I did, however, finish off half of what will probably be chapter 5), and then when I got back from vacation, I promptly had my wisdom teeth removed. Which I must say left me very uncomfortable and in pain for a few days. I just haven't been in a writting mood but luckily, I hit one the other night and finished it up a few hours ago. Im not completely satisfied with what I have done, but Im so happy to have something finished that I'll take what I can get lol.

I hope my next chapter won't take as long, and I really hope I didnt lose too many of you guys, and that this chapter is up to standard. Thanks for being patient with me :-)

* * *

He laid on top of his bed at night, and did what he'd done the past few nights before succumbing to sleep. Stare at the phone.

Her number was right next to it, the piece of paper she'd wrote it on free of creases or damage. It looked like he'd framed the thing, it was so untouched. Almost as if her were afraid to taint it. Certainly, it was too late to call her, anyway . . .

And once again, he became tired of his excuses. He knew the reason he hadn't called. He would be taking a risk . . . he had no idea who this woman was. He had no idea what, if anything, could come of this. Sure, his past failures numbed him a bit, but somehow, this chance felt a lot heavier. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed to scare the hell out of him.

Was it potential? Or simply the looming possibility of disappointment?

And why in God's name was this such a big, fucking deal? It didn't _have _to be.

. . . It didn't have to be a big deal.

He glanced at his digital alarm clock. It was barely after nine o'clock, and he was feeling a change in the wind.

-----

She got home Friday night, a particularly late night at the restaurant, as usual. God, she hated her job. She hated the envelope of the week's tips that she noticed was even thinner than usual as she tossed it onto the kitchen counter. She hated her paycheck, she hated her uniform. She hated everything.

And, above all, she'd hated what she'd become. When the hell did she take such a cynical turn?

She shook her head, mulling through the bills and taxes that she'd need to take care of in the next few days. It was too late for this. She nonchalantly dropped them into a messy pile next to her tips, and began undoing the messy bun her hair had become on the way to the bathroom. Brushing it smooth with her fingers, she looked herself over in the mirror. Her roots had grown out a bit, her golden color somewhat faded. She tilted her head, trying to decide if she liked the warm brown shade that was taking place.

Until she realized that she just didn't give a shit anymore.

She left the room to go grab some source of contentment out of the fridge, which was surely at the bottom of at least _one_ of those beer bottles, when she heard a knock at the door. She furrowed her brow; no one had buzzed up from downstairs. A little unsure, she went to answer it.

"Who is it?", she asked, having undone the dead bolt but leaving the chain lock in place.

"Ross Geller."

Her eyebrows raised.

"Oh," she answered, a bit surprised. "Um, sure, hold on a second."

Quickly, she stepped back to smooth out her . . . work uniform she hadn't changed out of, unfortunately. She made a face of disgust but tried to disregard it, opting to undo the lock and open the door instead.

"Hi," she said, smiling before she could stop herself.

"Hey," he answered just as warmly. Gesturing into her front room, he asked, "Mind if I . . .?"

"Oh, no, not at all, come on in."

He nodded, taking a few steps into the room so she could shut the door behind him. She wasn't quite sure how to act, since she still wasn't exactly sure why he was here.

"Did you just get off work?", he asked, noticing her crisp, white, collared shirt underneath a black vest, paired with black slacks. He assumed it must be what she wore at her job.

"Uh, yeah, actually."

"I was gonna ask," and he took a deep breath, "if you, maybe, wanted to get those drinks now?" He wasn't exactly looking her in the eye, but he could feel her somewhat hesitate at the request. "I mean, you know, its a Friday night and all, but if you don't want to, we could always-"

"Sure," she interrupted him, both stopping his nervous banter and catching him off guard. "Um, mind if I go change?"

"No, uh, go ahead."

She smiled, nodding her head towards the couch to let him know he could sit. And once he had, she allowed herself to retreat to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She stared at her reflection again, playing around with her hair before getting a change of clothes out of her bedroom. Maybe she still did give a shit about it.

Maybe it just took the right situation.

-----

Before either of them knew it, they were seated in a corner booth at a local bar. The room was a bit hazy with smoke, but it was a relatively calm place for a Friday night, and they were in an empty corner of the room. They sat across the table from each other, a somewhat tense silence growing, since they'd both consciously abandoned the idea of small talk.

She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on gruff old men playing poker and forlorn looking women in their mid fourties drowning their sorrows in cosmopolitians alike. He, however, was watching her.

He couldn't figure her out. While her appearence seemed careless- from her hair hanging loose and wavy on her shoulders, to the simple white tank top and flowy red skirt that hang down to her knees- she seemed like she came from someplace that wouldn't accept that way of living. He wasn't even sure why, but she almost gave the illusion that it was a relief to not worry about impressing anyone.

While he was still looking her over, she turned her attention back to him and caught him in the act. She threw him a half-smile, however, and gave in to the need for _some_ kind of conversation.

"How long have you lived here?", she asked.

"I didn't move in much before you did, I don't think. But I lived on the other side of the Village, a few years ago, after my first marriage."

Damn, he'd let that slip. He hadn't planned on talking about the divorce . . . and it hadn't helped that he'd added the _first._

"_First_ marriage?", she asked, both curious and surprised.

"Ah, you caught that, I see," he joked. She chuckled a little but looked at him in interest, beckoning him to continue. "I got married like right out of college. One of those 'first love' deals, you know?"

"Oh, sure," she nodded along, however big of a lie that agreement was.

"Well, we had dated for like four years. And were married for around three more. But it ended up not working out."

"Why not?"

"Um, conflict of interests?", he tried phrasing it.

"Such as . . .?"

"She likes women now," he put bluntly. He noticed Rachel's draw drop a bit. "Yeah, but we're still friends now. At least, I'd consider it that much." He wasn't even sure why he was telling her this. It wasn't _too_ deep into his past, but it still wasn't information he gave to just anyone. But, somehow, he felt that her presense alone was sympathizing with him. Just her being there.

"Wow." She looked down at her hands, subconsiously twirling two rings around her finger.

"You're married?", he asked, just now noticing what the rings were. It was a gold wedding band, paired with what looked like a very expensive engagement ring. He felt like he was stuck in a stare-down with the diamond, as he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. Disappointment? Sure. But what had he, himself still being a married man, been looking for with her tonight?

"Oh," she exclaimed, as if she had only now noticed the rings. "I didn't even realize I had these on. I guess that's why my tips were so small today," she weakly chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"So, you are?" He was trying hard as he could to sound casual about it.

"I haven't seen him in half a year, but sure," she vaguely answered. "I guess you'd call it that."

"What? You haven't seen him? What's that mean?"

She took a deep breath. She hadn't made many friends since Barry walked out on her, and she'd only told one of the few anything about the failed marriage. She only even had the rings on be accident, it was just a habit. But this man, he'd been divorced. Maybe he'd understand.

"God, I don't really tell many people this," she admitted, but looked up and met his eye anyway. Her gaze fervently held his attention. "We'd been married for, like, seven years. It was . . . a bad excuse for a marriage, to say the least. We lived on Park, he had his own orthodontist practice. He went bankrupt about eight months ago. That's how we ended up here. And the day we moved in, he went out to get a beer."

She took a sip of the drink she'd ordered, and didn't add to that last sentence at all. He wondered if that was it.

"You haven't seen him since?", he wondered.

"Not once." She merely sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. "I've heard about him through other people, they say he just needs to clear his head. As if there were anything there to clear up," she sardonically joked.

"You seem . . . oddly alright with it," he observed.

"I've been pretty much numb towards it," she replied honestly, shrugging a bit. "We didn't really have much to begin with, anyway. Marriage was just expected. Trust me, I'm not missing out on anything with him gone."

"You haven't tried to file for divorce?"

"Wouldn't know how to get ahold of him if I did," she admitted. "Besides, its not even worth it. I gave up on the 'right person' theory years ago."

In that instant, Ross felt like any small connection to her had been multiplied. He felt like he was listening to himself talk. He glanced down at the table, noticing that one of her hands now rested flat against it. He reached out, and ever-so-faintly touched it.

"I'm sorry he did that to you."

He'd been looking directly into her eyes when he said it. She felt a shiver go down her spine, even though it was warm in the bar. He sounded so . . . geniune. She'd almost forgotten what it sounded like when someone wasn't lying. And . . . he's been hurt before, just like she had. Nervously, she clearned her throat and shook her head to snap out of it.

"So, um, you said your divorce was your first marriage. You were married again?"

"Oh, yeah." He took a deep breath; he really didn't tell anyone about his marriage, particularly since he was still in it. But if anyone could understand, he guessed it'd be the woman sitting right in front of him, who'd gone through nearly the same thing. "It was really, really rushed in to. And I guess we didn't realize the consequences until later, until it was too late."

He paused a second, looking down at his hand. He didn't wear his wedding ring anymore. It was back at home, in its box, always foolishly waiting for everything to work itself out. Even though he knew that day would never come.

"She left me last year, we seperated. But I guess she didn't even see me as being worth the time to put through a divorce." He smiled in spite of himself.

"Would it even change anything?" she asked. "If you had the divorce, I mean. I don't feel like a divorce from Barry would change anything for me. I'd still be here, by myself, earning minimum wage in a dead end job in my shitty little apartment."

"Oh come on, it can't be that bad," he assured her. She smiled back at him.

"Trust me, it is." And by the look in her eyes, he could tell she wasn't exaggerating. He widened his smile a bit more, his eyes sympathetic.

"I know the feeling."

He didn't even think twice about it. It almost seemed an instict for him to do it. But before he could even process the action, he'd fully taken a hold of her hand. And before he could blink, she'd snapped in back towards herself.

"Ross . . .", she started. "Look, I mean . . ."

She looked embarrassed, and a bit taken aback. He knew it. He'd gone a bit too far, a bit too soon. A little invisible line had been drawn. And it even made himself wonder what he'd been looking to find in this woman that night.

They were both married. It might not be perfect, and certainly not ideal, and other than on legal paper, neither of them should hold any loyalty to their spouses. But both of them felt a little too old to focus on that. It wasn't worth it anymore.

"No, I know. I'm sorry."

They silently nursed their drinks for a few minutes, both now lost at what to decipher the evening as.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleight of Hand

**A/N:** Randon inspiration lately! Haha well actually, its been Tenneil and Tina's smut that got me here haha. Well, no, not really. I wrote half this chapter right after I saw Derailed for the first time (yes, there are blatant things taken from the movie. so sue me :-P). The next chapter should be along as quickly as this one was, its already half done :-) Hope you enjoyy, and please leave a review!

* * *

She could feel him watching her. They remained silent, neither one having any idea of what to do next.

Why had she moved her hand? Even she wasn't sure. It wasn't out of loyalty to Barry, not at all. Was it out of loyalty to marriage itself? Was she simply trying to convince herself that being married still meant something, that her life wasn't complete shit?

This was a mess.

She looked down at her wedding ring. No wonder she didn't get many tips tonight, she thought to herself. She always got more if she left the ring behind. She wished she could just get rid of it already, but habit sometimes found her with it still on her finger. It almost disgusted her that she would hold onto it, when it was the symbol of everything that had gone wrong in her life. And yet, as she rotated it around her finger, she couldn't get herself to take it off.

"Maybe we should go now," she offered, refusing to look into his face, afraid of what she might see there.

"Yeah," he agreed. After a little protest, he laid money on the table to pay for their drinks, and they headed off.

-----

He felt lightyears away from her as they trodded the up the block to their building. Glancing peripherally, he saw that she had her arms crossed over her chest, and she was staring straight ahead of her. But her face faltered. She seemed . . . confused.

"I'll walk you up," he insisted when they entered the lobby. She simply nodded, leading the way up the stairs to the fifth floor. He'd never felt like the staircase was this long, and he never knew silence could burn so much. He was desperate to fix whatever had made her shut down to him, only he didn't know how. But he knew that he couldn't let her enter her place with this uncomfortable air still between them.

"Well, this is me," Rachel said as they reached her door. They turned to look at each other, their eyes locking in a visual game of chess. Though, at the moment, it was hard to tell which person was winning. He had to take a chance. Fuck the rules. He didn't want to wonder about what could have happened. He didn't want to go to bed thinking about how she would react. So he leaned in close, putting his mouth by her ear. He could feel her breath begin to strain beneath him.

"What if I kissed you, but didn't touch your lips?", he asked, his voice just barely a whisper. She was literally pinned to the wall with him standing in front of her, and his breath on her neck made her shiver. She couldn't dare answer, only stand there and soak up whatever the hell this was. Her heart began beating so rapidly that she was sure he could hear it.

With her lack of a verbal answer, Ross took this as a defeat. Ever so gently, he leaned in even closer, very lightly brushing his lips against the skin just beneath her ear. The simple act caused her breath to catch in the back of her throat. It provoked him, and he moved down, kissing her cheek but letting his lips linger just a second longer. She still hadn't found the strength or willpower to lift a finger.

Even slower, as leaned in and kissed just next to her lips with an open mouth. She then inhaled so violently that it made a sharp noise that cut through the silence and sexual tension.

He pulled away, looking directly into her eyes. He couldn't read her expression, but she seemed to be struggling to catch her breath. Her eyes soon looked pleading, begging him for more.

Without warning, he roughly grabbed her arms, mashing his lips into hers before either could blink an eye. He felt her hands immediately on his back, groping for a hold as her fingernails dug into the fabric of his shirt. She opened her mouth for him, allowing his tongue to enter and battle with hers. Somehow, in all the commotion, she stumbled back and palmed the door knob to her apartment in her hand.

Both fumbling with the buttons of the other's shirt, they staggered backwards into the apartment, slamming the door behind them. Rachel quickly had his shirt unbuttoned, and slid it over his shoulders and off. Before anything else could happen, she pulled on him to move into her bedroom, and he followed suit, his hands getting bold and kneading her ass through her skirt, pressing her tight against himself.

Without bothering to turn on a light, they somehow maneuvered through the room until their knees hit the bed, causing him to fall on top of her. They were still liplocked, the kiss heightening to a bruising intensity. Ross tore his lips from hers, moving down to kiss her neck, his tongue brushing it with every touch. He now had her shirt unbuttoned, revealing her deep purple lacy bra, and he quickly moved his mouth lower to caress the uncovered cleavage. His hands finished the job of removing her shirt.

Rachel then pushed back on his shoulders and rolled over, forcing him to the bottom. She diligently untucked his undershirt from his pants, pulling it up and over his head and flinging it off to the side. She lowered herself on his bare chest, sucking on the tightened skin. She felt his hands move to her ass, then around front as he worked on the front button and zipper of her skirt. But before he could get it off, she moved down his body, and held his eyes as she undid his belt. She slowly tugged his pants down, seeing his arousal through his boxers. She kissed him just above the waistband, but he forcefully pulled her back up his body so he could kiss her mouth again.

Her head was spinning so much she thought it would explode. He tugged her skirt down her legs, sensually rubbing his palms up her thighs, over her ass, until he reached her bra and unclasped it. His hands lightly brushed the sides of her breasts as he removed it, causing her to let out a soft moan. Even more when he began to firmly fondle them, her nipples hardening in anticipation. He took one into his mouth and she thought she would burst if he wasn't inside her soon.

Too impatient to wait for him, she reached between them and stroked him, feeling that he was definitely ready. Without warning, she guided him into her, pushing down hard to feel him deep inside her. He let out a loud moan, since it had all been unexpected to him, but recovered quickly as he felt her begin to move up and down on top of him.

It had been so long since Rachel had been this active during sex. Ages, really. She couldn't have remembered the last time she and Barry had sex even if one of them tried. And she couldn't remember _ever_ feeling this needy . . .

She tried to quicken the pace, feeling him rise up to meet her, his thrusts getting harder and harder. He began hitting a certain spot at her, and though she wasn't climaxing yet, she began to feel weak in the legs. He could tell that she was getting exhausted, so he quickly ceased his motions to move her underneath him. Re-adjusting himself with his arms on both sides of his head for support, he began pumping fast, knowing he was close to the edge and feeling pretty sure that she was too.

Sure enough, a minute or two later, he felt her fingernails dig painfully hard into his back. Her eyelids squeezed shut as she tried with all her might not to scream. He felt her involuntarily contract around him, sending him dizzily over the edge as well. He collapsed in a heap on top of her, but he felt her hands move from the strong grip on his back to awkwardly holding his sides. And all of a sudden, he felt out of place.

He rolled off her, landing next to her on his back. Both were still panting deeply, out of breath. What the fuck were they supposed to do now?

Turning to look at the clock, something caught Rachel's eye.

Her wedding band was still on her finger.

She couldn't even fully comprehend what she'd just done. All she could think about was that it was wrong. She wasn't even having one thought about Barry, or Ross. Just the fact that she was married and just broke whatever that marriage had left with her, if there even was anything there to hold on to.

She felt him try to grab her hand, but she quickly pulled it away. Without a word, she wrapped a blanket around herself and quickly retreated to the bathroom. The moment she got in, she pulled the ring from her hand as if it were burning her, seething into the skin of her finger. It was tainted. She tossed it in the toilet, watching it sink to the bottom.

She didn't have the guts to pull the flush.

-----

He hated himself.

Why had he started that? Why in God's name did he have to? And now, he just ruined her . . . ruined everything that might have even been there. He was sure that he'd fucked it all up. She would never have acted that way had he not initiated it.

In disgust, he pulled his clothing on, wishing he could just snap his fingers and disappear. He looked at the bathroom door that she'd slammed shut behind her. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. He couldn't get himself to reach out to her, to apologize, to say one word.

He quickly opened his eyes, and with one last look, he left.

When he got home, he went straight to the shower. He washed himself until his skin became raw and red, and it burned with a quiet intensity. But he still felt dirty. He still felt guilty, and stupid, and terrible . . .

But, amongst the mess he'd let himself become, he felt a tiny ray of freedom. He felt like, finally, he'd broken out of his conservative ways. He felt like he'd let Emily go completely, and that he'd even let Carol go. All of that was gone. He was . . . just Ross.

She'd freed him.

-----

She curled into a tight ball in bed that night. She was exhausted, and with the close of her eyes, she waited for sleep to take her, and for her mind to stop twisting and turning over what happened. She'd deal with it later.

She longed for a day when her life didn't seem so complicated. When she was younger, before she knew how far gone she'd become.

Before she'd let him break her.


	6. Chapter 6

Sleight of Hand

**A/N: **Well, I must say, this chapter is incredibly special to me. Its a very rare instance where I really, really love how it came out. This chapter is probably one of my favorite things I've written. I wrote the second part last week in my notebook after waking up one morning and it just all came out while I was in bed. And I just wrote the first part a few hours ago. And I must say, Im so incredibly happy with this :-) And that almost never happens! But I just hope that you guys like it as much as I do.

**This chapter rated R**

* * *

He didn't want to approach her at her apartment. That seemed too prodding, an invasion of her territory. He needed neutral ground, somewhere where a meeting could be considered random, even if he had carefully planned it. So the next evening, he staked out at the only place he knew he'd see her; the mail room.

He paced the room, leaning against the counter every-so-often to look out the doorway for her. He listened for any sound of her entering the building, but heard nothing but silence. After nearly fifteen minutes of deliberate waiting, he heard the front door creak open. The footsteps inevitably leading toward his direction. He was almost scared to see her again, but he knew he had to say _something_.

She entered the room, and he let out a breath that he hadn't even noticed he'd been holding. Two steps in, she noticed him. She stopped cold, staring at him, fighting to find words but failing. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. He noticed she looked a bit more haggard than usual- her hair in limp curls, falling out of a messy ponytail. Bags under her eyes- she must not have gotten any sleep. But one thing stood out to him.

She wasn't wearing her wedding ring.

"Rachel," he began, taking a step forward. Everything he'd rehearsed in front of his mirror, the whole speech of apology beseeching her forgiveness for ever starting what happened last night slipped out of his mind. He could only think of one thing to say. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said softly, shaking her head. "Ross . . . I'm just as much at fault here as you. You don't have to apologize."

"But you were so upset," he said before he could stop himself. He sighed, and looked down at the ground. No matter what she said, he still felt guilty for last night, and he probably always would. But he felt a soft fingertip lift his chin up, and found himself staring right into her eyes, her face mere inches away.

"It wasn't you. _You_ didn't upset me."

He pulled away, still not convinced. She looked away from him, and he noticed that her eyes became glossy. She was fighting back tears. All he wanted to do was embrace her, but he couldn't. He needed to hear more, and she sensed that.

"Look, you know how I said I was fine with Barry leaving, and that I didn't care anymore?", she asked. He nodded. "How I was 'numb'?"

"Yes . . ."

She looked down at the ground, looking almost embarrassed to continue.

"Well I'm not," she whispered. "I'm not okay that my life has fallen apart. I'm _not_ okay that I live alone in a stupid fucking apartment with not one goddamn person to talk to." Her voice was gaining volume. "And I'm not okay that one night with a guy I just met showed me so much that I've been missing out on for my entire life."

And with that last statement, she broke down. He immediately moved forward, letting her fall limply against his chest as he encircled her in his arms. He stroked her hair and rocked her back and forth, whispering to her that everything would be alright, that it would all work out. Even if he wasn't sure of that himself.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there. It felt like hours- days, even. It was quite awhile before the sobs that shook her body melted away into quiet sniffling. Her face was pressed against his chest, and her arms had eventually found their way around his middle, squeezing for dear life. He felt as though she'd be a mess on the floor if he wasn't there to keep her up. But when she sniffed away the last of her tears, she looked up at him.

"Thank you."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, before he tentatively bent down and kissed her. He meant it to be a quick, soft kiss, but she surprised him by deepening it. It felt like CPR; like they could finally breath again. Like they were coming back to life. After a few moments, they pulled away, keeping their arms around each other.

"Will you come upstairs with me?" she asked quietly. He nodded, and taking her hand in his, he led the way.

-----

"I'm gonna take a shower," she said weakly upon entering the apartment. He followed her into her bedroom, since she seemed to need his support just to walk the twenty feet there. She left for the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind her, and he sat back on her bed as he heard her turn the water on. He felt far beyond uncomfortable in this situation. Why the hell had she asked him to come up if he was just going to sit there?

Almost as an answer to the question, she emerged from the bathroom, fully naked and wet from the shower. Just staring at him. He was a bit startled, but also a bit disgusted that he couldn't keep his eyes off her. He stood up from the bed, and watched as beads of water slid down her body, over her shoulders, between her breasts, against the curve of her hips . . .

Her face looked determined, defiant. Suddenly, she moved forward, grasping his hand in hers, and pulling him back into the bathroom. The skin of his hand tingled with the contact. She shut the door behind them to keep the cool air out, letting the steam from the shower fill and warm the room.

Her eyes drilling holes into his, she slowly wrapped her arms around his neck, urging him down to meet her lips. He obliged, capturing her lips with his, settling his hands on her waist and letting them run up and down her wet back. She felt so . . . real. He wasn't even sure what that meant, but it had been the first adjective to enter his mind. She felt _real_. Honest. Genuine.

She pushed her tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss but maintaining a slow, easeful cadence. It wasn't so much about any heat or passion of the moment as it was about them both surrendering in defeat. To everything. To their lives. Their tongues weren't fighting for control over the kiss, but rather massaged each other carefully and deliberately, searching out the other's mouth. It was as though they were creating their own form of sympathy for each other.

When he felt her hands slide down his chest and begin to finger the buttons of his shirt, he halted his actions.

Was this right? Would he be taking advantage of her?

"Rachel . . .", he breathed, breathless from the kiss. He meant it as more of a question than a statement, begging for some sort of explanation as to why she was doing this. She didn't have to, she had nothing to prove to him.

All her got in reply was her looking into his eyes, showing a bashful plea to continue. With a simple nod, and still a bit uncertain, he bent his head back down and reattatched his lips to hers, letting her continue to undo the buttons of his shirt. After rolling it off his shoulders and removing his white undershirt, she ran her hands over his chest until her hands slid further down and found his belt. After fumbling around, trying to undo it while still making out with him, she pushed both his pants and his boxers to the floor, sighing in relif when he was fully unclothed and she could return to just holding him.

With her arms around his waist and gripping at his back, she subtly pulled them towards the shower that continued to run. His hands finally got bolder and she moaned out loud as he pulled her towards him, pressing his groin into her stomach.

She somehow managed to walk them backwards into the shower, knowing when to stop only when she felt the cool tile of the wall press against her back. They continued kissin gunderneath the warm downpout from the showerhead. He ran his hands slowly up her sides, grazing the sides of her breasts with his thumbs. She pulled him closer to her.

In one motion, he let his hands slide down, underneath her ass, picking her up and leaning her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he broke their kiss to nibble and suck at her neck. One of his hands moved between her legs and played with her.

"Ross . . . please," she begged, barely even able to control her breathing enough to form coherent words. He pulled his head up, looking at her closed eyelids and the way her chest rose and fell heavily with her erratic breathing. He rested his forehead against hers, their noses almost touching in the space between them, and he closed his eyes as well.

He pushed into her with a solid thrust, causing her to bite her lip and throw her head back against the wall. He bent his neck and kissed her chest as he began thrusting in and out, unable to help increasing speed so quickly. She tried to move her own hips to meet him, hugging him tightly to her body, feeling like it was impossible for him to be too deep. Within a few minutes, they were both already gasping for air, fighting to hold on to each other at the water continued to drench them.

With one last hard, deep trust, she was gone. As he heard her final, resounding moan and felt her involuntarily contract around him, he was sent off the edge as well, his muscles giving way as he relaxed against her like dead weight, pinning her to the wall.

After a few minutes of recovery, Ross regained his strength and shut off the shower. He was surprised when Rachel, her eyes looking as though she were in some sort of daze, simply left the bathroom. He followed her into the bedroom and saw her sitting on the edge of her bed, staring forward into space, not caring that her sheets were getting soaked. He sat down next to her, and felt her release her weight into his side. He bent down and softly kissed her, lingering for a second.

"You want to go to sleep?", he whispered carefully, his lips grazing her ear as he choose his words. She nodded.

He pulled back the covers, situating himself beneath them and bringing her to rest atop himself. He ran his hands over her slick body, beginning to feel sleep overtake him. But before he could fall completely under, he heard something. A muffled noise.

Rachel was crying again, softly, attempting to smother her sobs into his chest. He almost expected himself to immediately feel guilty again, until he realized that she could not be crying because of him taking advantage of her. This wasn't his fault. This had to be something about her.

She hated that she was crying. What awkward timing. And yet, she couldn't help it. No one had ever made her feel like that before. In all her years of marriage, she'd experienced anything this passionate, this desperate, this hungry. She felt like a fool for being married to Barry for so many years, for losing out and missing everything she could have had. And she had to learn it from this man that she barely knew. Only she knew it was no longer that simple.

"Shh," he cooed, rubbing her back consolingly and kissing the top of her head. "It's going to be okay."

In seeing her unravel, in so many different ways, Ross himself came undone. His tears came silently as he held her, protected her, for fear that his own sobbing would only upset her more.

If only everything could be easier. If only they didn't have all this fucking baggage weighing them down.

If only everything _was_ okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Sleight of Hand

**A/N: **I'm not 100 sure I like this chapter. But I needed a little break from all the dramatic angst the other chapter were, so I do like that this one's a bit quieter. I wrote it while listening to "Everything" by Lifehouse, so I just was in a really mellow mood haha. I hope everyone likes it, and the move reviews, the better :-)

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He woke to the smell of coconut shampoo.

Opening his eyes uncertainly, he saw her. Well, the back of her head. Once he blinked a few times and gave the room a once-over, he remembered where he was. And then he was aware of his arms, holding something protectively. Something smooth, that rose up and down rhythmically, that had a pulse. He ran his hand up it and found it to be her stomach. Her back was to his chest, his arm flung over her waist, pulling her to him.

He smiled.

Carefully, he leaned his head closer, gently caressing the velvety skin of her shoulder with his lips. She sighed in her sleep, and adjusted herself a bit, but didn't wake. He moved further down, softly kissing her arm, and it seemed to be enough to pull her from sleep. She chuckled quietly, her body shaking under his arm. She turned herself around so she was facing him, and he saw silent gratitude in her eyes.

"Thank-", she began, but he interrupted her by leaning in and catching her lips. They kissed lazily, merely brushing their lips against the others for a few moments. Then Ross broke the pattern, kissing her full for a few drawn out seconds, and pulled back.

"You're welcome."

She sighed, half-smiling at him a bit. Then she moved closer, settling her head on his chest as he wrapped an arm around her back. She let one leg fall between his, nestling snugly into his side, as he let his other hand stroke her arm, slowly.

And all of a sudden, the peaceful moment left Rachel feeling a little short. There was no doubt that Ross made her feel better, but . . . what were they, really? She couldn't say they knew each other well enough to be good friends. And really, unless she counted going out for a simple few drinks a date, she wouldn't say they were dating.

But then what the hell were they doing?

"I have work soon," he said softly, as one of his hands moved in imaginary circles along the skin of her hip.

"Then you should probably leave and start getting ready," she flatly replied, detangling herself from him and beginning to gather her clothes. He watched her in confusion as she grabbed his clothing as well, and handed them out to him. "Well?"

"Yeah," he sighed, disappointed. "I guess."

They both dressed, and though the moment was thick, it was anything but awkward. It was comfortable, even, amidst all the tension. But Rachel had too many questions, and she needed to think about everything.He moved towards her, not sure how to say goodbye for the moment. He opted for a kiss on her cheek, and noticed how kept her eyes down after he pulled away. "I'll see you later, then."

"Bye," she whispered.

-----

She paced the hallway in front of his apartment, glancing at her watch every few minutes. After spending the entire day thinking about what to consider this . . . "thing" going on between Ross and herself as, and she still had no answers. All she knew was that he comforted her, even just his presence. But was that enough?

She heard footsteps ascending the staircase that was down the hall, and her heart jumped a bit. She wasn't even sure what she was going to say to him- all she knew was that she wanted answers. And if he was anything like her, he probably wanted them too.

He spotted her as he emerged from the staircase, turning the corner down his hall. He looked baffled, waving hesitantly at her as he made his way down the hall. She weakly smiled, taking a deep breath and going over everything she needed to know in her mind. Only when he finally reached her, and was standing merely an arm's length away, and his rich brown eyes were gazing down at her, it all left her mind.

"Rachel? What- what are you-"

"Ross," she interrupted, "There's something I need to know."

"Don't you work at the restaurant tonight?", he wondered.

"I got someone to cover my shift."

"Oh."

"Ross, I, um . . ." God, what was she even asking? She wasn't sure anymore. So she just said whatever came out. "What are we?" His eyebrows raised in surprise, and she guessed that he must be confused over this too. "I mean, we just met like last week, we barely know each other, we're both technically married . . . what is this? What are we doing?" A short silence followed before he moved to reply.

"Do you feel right?", was all that he asked. She was caught off guard.

"I guess. But-"

Cupping her cheek in one of his hands, he leaned in and kissed her, pulling her close with his other hand on her back. She slowly returned the gesture, slipping further under with each passing second.

"Then don't question it," he murmured between kisses. She felt him reach his hand behind her, unlock the door to his apartment, and allowed him to walk her backwards into it. And she let herself go to him once again.

-----

She propped herself up on her side later that night in bed, drawing the sheets around her naked body. She watched the man sleeping soundly beside her, this man that somehow made her forget. She didn't know how he did it, or why he was doing it. But being with him in this way made her forget all the shit that went on in some past life of hers, before she'd gotten here. Maybe it did the same for him.

She half smiled as he fidgeted a bit in his sleep, turning to his side before settling back into whatever dream he was having. She ran her hand softly through his hair, ruffling it up a bit before patting it back down. She let her hand run down his face before she sighed, turning to lie on her back.

Her eyes scanned his room. It was the first time she'd seen it. It was full of warm colors, his personal knick-knacks, some paperwork from his classes. There was a small table with a chair in the corner, and she noticed two photo frames that were face-down. Her eyes lingered; it seemed like something he looked at often. The chair was turned out, as though he sat there so much that he didn't care to push it back in. A partially empty glass of some unknown liquid sat next to them.

Curiosity got the better of her. She glanced at him one more time to make sure he was asleep before slipping out of bed. Grabbing his dress shirt from off the floor to cover herself, she sat in the chair and turned her back to him. As she clicked on the small lamp, she lifted the frames.

And then she saw the joy of two seperate weddings. Two very different brides with shining smiles- one, a striking blonde with pale blue eyes, and the other, a brunette with a warm gaze. But the very same groom, wide-eyed and excited, so foolishly in love. Or in love with the idea of love. Whichever it was, he seemed so innocently naive.

She felt a pang of hurt. One of these women was still his wife.

"The blonde one's Carol," she heard a soft voice behind her. Ross had woken up. He smiled sleepily at her. "My first wife." She nodded, noticing now that he looked years younger in that photo than in the other one.

"When did you find out about her?" She was speaking in hushed tones, though she didn't know why. It seemed to fit the moment. The air was so calm and the room was so still, she didn't want to ruin it.

"We'd been married, like, three years before anything," he began, kneeling next to her and laying one arm around her shoulders, resting on the back of the chair. "We'd always been best friends. We could talk about anything and nothing for hours. But then, we just started drifting. She was distant, all of a sudden. Spent a lot of time out with her friends. And before I could even find out what was going on, she just dropped this bombshell on me- she was gay."

"Wow," she replied, shaking her head. "I can't even imagine."

"Yeah, it was sort of an arrow to the heart," he said, in all seriousness. She felt his hand begin lightly stroking her shoulder.

"What went wrong with her?", she asked after a moment, motioning towards the other picture.

"Well, as I said, Emily's technically still my wife. We're seperated. It was just a matter of going way too fast. Once I'd found her, and we were dating, I just wanted so bad to have what was originally between Carol and I. I thought that was what I was supposed to have. We'd barely been dating a few months when i proposed. There was just . . . a lot we hadn't known about each other, a lot we hadn't anticipated."

"How long have you been married?"

"Three years, nearly. I don't know how. The problems just kept growing until we were barely talking. It was like sharing a bed with a stranger." He sighed heavily. "We've spoken since she left, but I think we're both certain that its too far gone to mend."

"And you're alright with all of this?", she asked in confusion. He remembered her breaking down to him the night before, about how everything really wasn't okay in her mind.

"Not really. I've sort of trained myself to be numb, but deep down . . . there's nothing okay about it. I'm just . . . learning to deal with it."

He looked over into her empathetic eyes. She knew exactly what he meant. He leaned in, closing the distance between them with a gentle kiss that lingered a few moments. He pulled away, still keeping his face close to hers.

"Want to go back to sleep?", she whispered. He nodded, stood up, and held his hand out to her. Taking it, she followed him back to the bed. After discarding his shirt, they settled in under the covers and wrapped themselves up in each other.

As she drifted to sleep, she couldn't help but feeling that, with learning more about him and knowing him better, maybe their connection wasn't so weird. Maybe she didn't have to question it.

It just was.


	8. Chapter 8

Sleight of Hand

**A/N: **Ugh. Thats all I have to say about this fic now. I've been surprisingly dry when it comes to ideas, even though I already have the end planned. Its not even that I dont have inspiration- I dont even have to motivation for it. Blehh. I really hate how this chapter came out but whatever, its a chapter nonetheless. Hopefully you guys dont hate it as much as I do lol.

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"No, Ross, really. I'm working late tonight too, it's okay. Seriously." She laughed a bit.

"Well, alright then," he said, finally accepting the fact that they were both simply too busy tonight. It was almost like he'd forgotten that they led their own lives over the past week. "We'll have dinner tomorrow?"

"That's fine. Now get back to work, those papers don't grade themselves." He smiled to himself, picturing the exact look of playful demand that had probably crossed her face as she'd said that.

"Yes ma'am."

"I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Bye."

As he hung up the phone, he found his smile lingering for a while afterwards. Even as he turned towards the thick stack of theses that sat on his desk, just waiting to be covered in red ink. And, for once, he wasn't starting out the work with an already bored air. He was almost . . . looking forward to it. It wasn't binding anymore.

Hell, he even felt like his collegues weren't restricting him as much. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this free, this limitless. God, he could do anything! And there was no one to stop him but himself. He was free of some chokehold he'd had in the past, one he could probably trace back to Emily, and even Carol. The bars were lifted, and he was just . . . him. Just Ross Geller.

And he liked it this way.

-----

She pulled her coat more tightly around her, feeling her nose go numb as she made her way home. Her hands were balled into fists, and she kept them in the pockets not so much to avoid the cold that had taken over Manhattan that night, but to keep her from doing anything stupid. Like punching a stop sign.

God, she wanted to punch something.

Glancing quickly at her watch, she increased her pace, carefully avoiding the small patches of ice that resided on the sidewalks that night. She was running massively late, and knew he must be standing outside her apartment, wondering where the hell she was. He was probably worrying too. Ugh, just some more stress to add to an already overwhelming night.

Everything started swelling up inside of her and she couldn't take it. She was right in front of her building, and there was a nice, hard speed limit sign just begging to be kicked. She flung her foot into it as hard as she could, only to immediately regret it as sharp pains shot all the way up her calf. Cursing to herself, she frantically hobbled through the doors and to the elevator, thanking God that maintenance had finally fixed it.

She somehow dragged herself down the hallway when she reached her floor, and, as expected, saw him leaning against the wall. His eyes were on the floor, and she quickly checked her watch again and saw that she was over an hour late.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm here!", she croaked, her voice a little raw from the cold air outside and the small amount of yelling she'd done earlier. His neck snapped up to see her.

"What happened?", he asked as she unlocked her door, and just as she'd expected, he sounded more worried then angry with her. At least that was one less person to have to deal with. And she couldn't help but already feel a little better, knowing that at least someone was worrying.

"Ugh, work. I _hate_ them. I hate them all!" she replied, her voice getting a bit louder with her frustration. He followed her into her bedroom as she shed her coat and flung it somewhere on the ground.

Soon, she began shedding her work clothes as well, tossing them into a heap in the corner as she pulled on an oversize shirt and an old pair of worn boxers. She started fiddling around with her jewelery, not even able to calm down enough to get it off. Ross came up behind her and unsnapped her necklace, taking her by surprise as she'd almost forgotten he was there.

"Thanks." He rubbed her shoulder.

"Come here, sit down." He sat at the edge of her bed, and pat the empty matress beside him. With a resounding sigh, she shuffled over and plopped down next to him.

"First off, why are you limping?"

"'Cause I kicked a pole," she admitted, sounding like an upset child. He chuckled a small bit, taking one of her hands in his.

"Okay, tell me everything. What happened at work?"

"I spilled wine, _one_ glass of wine! . . . Okay, well it was red wine and it was on a customer, but that was it! And the man just threw a _fit_ and demanded to see the manager, and I'm already on his bad side. After getting an earful from both of them, he told me it was the last straw and they'd only been keeping me because they all pitied me. Can you believe that? It was a pity job! And, apparently, they didn't pity me _that_ much, because I got fired."

She groaned loudly, collapsing back against the bed with a 'thud'.

"I'm so sorry, Rach." Her eyes were closed, but she could feel his fingers lightly rubbing up and down her arm, which already was relieving some of her tension. "Do you want me to get you some water? You sound hoarse."

"That's cause I told my boss he can go fuck himself. In front of the entire restaurant. _Very_ loudly."

He couldn't help but laugh loudly, thinking of this petite, tiny woman bellowing out cuss words at her employer. She opened her eyes in disbelief, and shot him a dirty look, but all it did was heighten his laughter even more. Finally, she picked up a pillow and swatted him with it.

"I'm sorry! Its just funny to think of!"

"Its not funny at all, Ross! I lost my job!" Finally, her anger seemed to subside, leaving a bruised Rachel in its wake. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the sting of tears come, feeling like a part of this shanty little life she'd somehow made for herself was completely lost. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

"Okay, sit up," he demanded, tugging her arm until she sat back up next to him. Her head remained turned down, so he lifted her chin with his index finger to make sure she was looking at him in the eye. "Its one job, Rachel. Just a job. Were you planning on waitressing for the rest of your life anyway?"

"I guess not." She shook her head and sniffled a bit. "I mean, last year, the thought of having a job would have almost disgusted me. I never needed one, not with all the money Barry brought in. I was expected _not_ to have one. So this was all I ever had."

"I know, its okay. Just know that this isn't the end of the world, alright?" She nodded, letting him pull her into a hug. Feeling his warm, strong arms enveloped around her, she finally felt better, even if a few stray tears made their way out of her eyes and onto his shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, her voice muffled into his sweater.

"Of course."

He kissed her temple, meaning only to comfort her, but finding something a little more. He pulled out of the hug to look her in the face. Her eyes were big and still a little wet, her nose was still red from the chill outside, and her long bangs hung limply on her face. He brushed them to the side, cupping her cheek in his hand, as he leaned in and kissed her softly.

Her muscles finally relaxed against him and she felt his tongue brush against her lips, and instinctively opened her mouth. After a few moments, his hand slid underneath her shirt, caressing her bare back. She couldn't deny how good it felt, rubbing warmth back into her body, but something about all of this wasn't sitting right with her. When she felt his hand explore higher, reaching for the clasp on her bra, she pulled away.

"Ross," she whispered, trying to regain her breath. She saw him look at her questioningly, and almost scared. "Look . . . is it okay if we, um, don't have sex tonight?"

"I'm sorry-", he began apologizing immediately, but she stopped him, knowing he would be thinking he was taking advantage of her, or something equally untrue. And of course he wouldn't be. She was just hoping that, maybe, they didn't _need_ to have sex to comfort each other. She was already feeling lightyears better just from talking to him, and just didn't see a need to take anything further right now.

"No, no, don't apologize. I'm just really tired tonight. But, can you just . . . be with me? Just stay here tonight?"

"Anything you want," he said after a moment, smiling a little. She smiled back before getting up to pull back the covers on her bed and settling under them. She watched as he stipped down to his boxers, feeling so incredibly thankful that this man had somehow been dropped into her life. She had no idea how she handled things before he was there. And as he slid into bed next to her, and pulled her into his arms, she couldn't even believe what she'd done without them.

She rested her head against his chest, feeling his hand once again stroke the skin on her back, and feeling sleepier with every passing moment. She'd never felt this comfortable being tangled up with someone. It was like the two of them just fit together. Something about lying in his arms just instantly made her want to curl up and sleep against him forever and a day.

He felt her breathing steady out after a few short minutes, but he continued to stroke her skin. He felt this innate need to protect her tonight, to fight off anything that might come close to hurting her further. She seemed so fragile and frail right now.

And then he realized that this was their first night sleeping together without having sex. He wondered why they hadn't done it before. It was so comfortable, so effortless. They didn't _need_ to take things further. Maybe they just needed each other.

Even though he hadn't been the one with the problem that night, that idea reassured him enough to let him drift off to sleep.


End file.
